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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26642062">ain’t no party</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit'>graywhatsit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, College Parties, Gen, gender-neutral da, mild violence, university days amirite?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:00:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,392</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26642062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Damien and the DA love a good party.</p>
<p>They are no longer invited to parties.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>ain’t no party</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>idk something fun and sweet since we were talking about their college days on tumblr</p>
<p>speaking of i’m on tumblr @fgfluidity so... come say hi?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They are not the people you invite to a party.</p>
<p>Everyone on campus— and it’s a <em>damn</em> big campus— knows Damien and his little friend are not welcome. Party invitations are by paper only, or in hushed whispers, with explicit, begged instruction, “Please, for the love of God, don’t let them know about it.”</p>
<p>“Why?” The reply comes, usually from underclassmen, sometimes from those just joining the party scene. “The squeaky-clean boy? That quiet one? Why would they even go to a party?”</p>
<p>The answer varies, depending in the source.</p>
<p>“That law student tackled someone for the last cookie on the table. They ended up with the cookie.”</p>
<p>“Damien can and will drink you under the table. I’d think he just pours it out when you aren’t looking, but I watched— he <em>doesn’t</em>.”</p>
<p>“I lost half the money in my wallet to his friend in poker. Their face doesn’t change, you can’t win.”</p>
<p>“I turned my back on my sandwich for one second, and my next bite was full of hot sauce! I know it was Damien— no one looks <em>that</em> innocent, especially not with the bottle right next to him!”</p>
<p>The stories grow more and more outlandish— running from the police, breaking various pieces of furniture— but surely the stuff of a different kind of prank; the storytellers remain serious, reiterate their pleas.</p>
<p>Some don’t talk about it. Others do, but the word doesn’t spread much outside of their own circle.</p>
<p>Damien and his friend don’t show.</p>
<p>Until, one night, later in their academic career, at a house party not far outside of campus, they do.</p>
<p>————</p>
<p>Damien swallows another mouthful of beer.</p>
<p>It’s harder than one would think, swallowing upside down, but his lifters are still counting and he knows he can drink more. The issue comes with fullness, not drunkenness, and he isn’t quite full.</p>
<p>He swallows, and it nearly comes back up in a fountain of carbonation.</p>
<p>Alright, perhaps he is. He signals, bending his legs, and he’s set right side up on the floor beside the keg.</p>
<p>“Well?” He asks, stifling a rather strong burp. It isn’t the most effective. “Your turn.”</p>
<p>One of his lifters just stares, something halfway between mortification and astonishment. “I think you drank the rest of it— all I’m going to get is foam. What the hell?”</p>
<p>Damien shakes his head. “What? No.” He wipes his mouth— using his handkerchief, he’s a gentleman— and continues, “I can drink, but not that much. How long?”</p>
<p>“Too long,” the other lifter grumbles. “Come on, we need to see if there’s anything left after his turn.”</p>
<p>And that seems to be the end of his participation. Rude— and isn’t that the entire point, to go as long as you can stand?</p>
<p>It isn’t his fault he’s undefeated.</p>
<p>Speaking of— there was a poker table around here, somewhere. He remembers, through the warm and pleasant haze just starting to drift into his mind, leaving his friend there.</p>
<p>
  <em>“You sure you want to do this one on your own? I have some money, we can both play.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>An impish smile. “I’ll just have to play you at the end, and I hate taking from you, my friend.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You think you can?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“No. I know I <b>will</b>.”</em>
</p>
<p>The thing is— they’re right. He’s damn good at poker, but they’re on an entirely different level. They’ve been friends for years, played poker too many times to count, and he still hasn’t discovered a single tell.</p>
<p>It’s kind of impressive, in truth.</p>
<p>The game is still going— half-heartedly, which means quite a few people have been cleaned out— but they’re nowhere to be found at the table. Curious, Damien leans in to one of the players. “Excuse me, have you seen my friend? I left them at—“</p>
<p>“No! No, you keep them away from this table.” The boy leans back, a threatening finger held up. “And you— we don’t have anything else, alright? They went to get drinks, and I don’t care where the thief went after that.”</p>
<p>Damien’s face tightens, anger hot and boiling in the pit of his stomach. “I’m sorry, good man? What did you call them?”</p>
<p>“I called them—“</p>
<p>“He didn’t,” another voice jumps in, and the man stands to put his raised hands between them. “He didn’t. We’re testy, we lost. They got drinks, that’s it. I saw them last in the kitchen.”</p>
<p>It doesn’t cool his rage by much, but Damien takes a step back. He would rather not fight, if he can help it. “Thank you. Enjoy your game. And I would bet, sir, if I were you,” he adds, to the gentleman still sitting. “Just a tip, if you’re interested.”</p>
<p>He has a seven and a two, but, well— Damien’s good, but he’s prone to mistakes, isn’t he?</p>
<p>On his way to the kitchen, pushing through the crowds with as many niceties as he can muster, a loud curse rises over the din. Almost immediately afterward—</p>
<p>“Damien!”</p>
<p>He turns in the direction of his name. His friend is pushing towards him, through the small gaps they can twist through.</p>
<p>He might be glad to see them, ask about their pot from the game, ask if they’re feeling alright, but any such questions vanish at the look on their face.</p>
<p>Eyes wide, clothes mussed, a grimace halfway between adrenaline-fueled delight and fear; they’re pushing fast, and they collide with him with all the force of a train, pulling at his shirt.</p>
<p>“Wh- hold on, what’s happening?” He asks, lifting his hands to their shoulders.</p>
<p>“We need to go, we need to get out of here, now,” they say, and look back over their shoulder. “Damn it, move, now, we have to go!”</p>
<p>“What happened?” Damien looks up, back in the direction they came.</p>
<p>“Where is the little bastard?!” A voice roars, and he can just see people parting, either of their own accord or forcibly, before the face comes into view.</p>
<p>The man is big, strong-looking, and furious. Frightening— and only made more so by the blood dribbling from his nose.</p>
<p>Damien blinks, then looks back down at his friend, still pushing at him to move. “What did you <em>do</em>?”</p>
<p>“Something I—“ They look back again, and redouble their efforts, finally succeeding in moving his backwards. “Run, run! Front door!”</p>
<p>Now that he’s seen the threat, he doesn’t need further convincing. Damien grabs their arm, pushing them up ahead as they scramble, pushing through people without a thought to courtesy or manners.</p>
<p>“Where are they?!”</p>
<p>No longer in his clutches, not if Damien can help it.</p>
<p>It isn’t until they’re stumbling a block away— running while intoxicated is not easy, or fun— that they stop to catch their breath.</p>
<p>“Is he chasing us still?” His friend doesn’t look back, eyes squeezed shut, hands on their knees.</p>
<p>Damien takes a peek. Nothing. “I think he’s still in the house. Lots of people to check.” He heaves a sigh. “What in hell did you do?”</p>
<p>“I punched him.”</p>
<p>“You— <em>what</em>?” Completely baffled, his mouth works around several different questions before finally settling on: “<em>What</em>?”</p>
<p>They straighten up— at least, as much as they can without swaying on their feet. “Well! If you’d heard any of what he was saying, I think he’d be flat on the floor!”</p>
<p>“He was bigger than you!”</p>
<p>“So?” They sniff, look at their fist and flex their fingers. “Shouldn’t have said what he did. And I’m faster.”</p>
<p>There’s something to their explanation, more than the casual dismissal of his concern. Getting them to admit anything further, however— especially while drunk— is an exercise in futility. “You didn’t get hit, did you?” He asks, reaching out to grab their shoulders again.</p>
<p>They allow the touch, letting him turn them from side to side. “No. I’m okay, Damien. Promise.”</p>
<p>No sign of injury, as far as he can see. “...Good punch?”</p>
<p>They grin, big and bright and cocky. “Once he’s done looking for me, he might need a splint.”</p>
<p>“You’re a monster,” he mutters, unable to fight a grin. “Alright, we’re not going back, lest he actually catch you. Shall we go see about your hand?”</p>
<p>“Maybe,” they admit, cradling it closer to their chest. “It was like punching a wall.”</p>
<p>Maybe his laughter is a bit loud for the surrounding houses, but they’re gone before anyone decides to lecture them for it.</p>
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